Opinie o ebooku A Royal Prisoner - Marcel Allain, Pierre Souvestre

Fragment ebooka A Royal Prisoner - Marcel Allain, Pierre Souvestre

Marcel Allain (1885-1970) was a French writer mostly remembered
today for his co-creation with Pierre Souvestre of the fictional
arch-villain and master criminal Fantômas. The son of a Parisian
bourgeois family, Allain studied law before becoming a journalist.
He then became the assistant of Souvestre, who was already a
well-known figure in literary circles. In 1909, the two men
published their first novel, Le Rour. Investigating Magistrate
Germain Fuselier, later to become a recurring character in the
Fantômas series, appears in the novel. Then, in February 1911,
Allain and Souvestre embarked upon the Fantômas book series at the
request of publisher Artheme Fayard, who wanted to create a new
monthly pulp magazine. The success was immediate and lasting. After
Souvestre’s death in February 1914, Allain continued the Fantômas
saga alone, then launched several other series, such as Tigris,
Fatala, Miss Téria and Férocias, but none garnered the same
popularity as Fantômas. In 1926, Allain married Souvestre’s
girl-friend, Henriette Kistler. In total, Allain wrote more than
400 novels in his prolific career.

Pierre Souvestre (June 1, 1874-February 26, 1914) was a French
lawyer, journalist, writer and organizer of motor races. He is
mostly remembered today for his co-creation with Marcel Allain of
the fictional arch-villain and master criminal Fantômas. He was
born in Plomelin, a commune in Finistere, Bretagne. In 1909,
already a well-known figure in literary circles, Souvestre
collaborated with his assistant Allain on their first novel, Le
Rour. Investigating Magistrate Germain Fuselier, later to become a
recurring character in the Fantômas series, appears in the novel.
Then, in February 1911, Allain and Souvestre embarked upon the
Fantômas book series at the request of publisher Artheme Fayard,
who wanted to create a new monthly pulp magazine. The success was
immediate and lasting. Souvestre died of a congestion of the lungs.
After his death, Allain continued the Fantômas saga alone.

Copyright: This work was
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Chapter1 A
ROYAL JAG

"After all, why not celebrate? It's the last day of the year and
it won't come again for twelve months."

It was close upon midnight.

Jerome Fandor, reporter on the popular newspaper, La
Capitale, was strolling along the boulevard; he had just come
from a banquet, one of those official and deadly affairs at which
the guests are obliged to listen to interminable speeches. He had
drowsed through the evening and at the first opportunity had
managed to slip away quickly.

The theatres were just out and the boulevard was crowded with
people intent on making a night of it. Numberless automobiles
containing the fashionable and rich of Paris blocked the streets.
The restaurants were brilliantly illuminated, and as carriages
discharged their occupants before the doors, one glimpsed the neat
feet and ankles of daintily clad women as they crossed the sidewalk and disappeared
inside, following their silk-hatted escorts, conscious of their own
importance.

Many years of active service in Paris as chief reporter
of La Capitale had brought Jerome Fandor in
touch with a good third of those who constitute Parisian society,
and rarely did he fail to exchange a nod, a smile, or half a dozen
words of friendly greeting whenever he set foot out of doors.

But in spite of his popularity he led a lonely life—many
acquaintances, but few close friends. The great exception was Juve,
the celebrated detective.

In fact, Fandor's complex and adventurous life was very much
bound up with that of the police officer, for they had worked
together in solving the mystery of many tragic crimes.

On this particular evening, the reporter became gradually imbued
with the general spirit of gaiety and abandon which surrounded
him.

"Hang it," he muttered, "I might go and hunt up Juve and drag
him off to supper, but I'm afraid I should get a cool reception if
I did. He is probably sleeping the sleep of the just and would
strongly object to being disturbed. Anyway, sooner or later, I'll
probably run into some one I know."

On reaching Drouet Square, he espied an inviting-looking restaurant, brilliantly lit. He was about to
make his way to a table when the head waiter stopped him.

"Your name, please!"

"What's that?" replied Fandor.

The waiter answered with ironical politeness:

"I take it for granted you have engaged a table. We haven't a
single vacant place left."

Fandor had the same luck at several other restaurants and then
began to suffer the pangs of hunger, having, on principle, scarcely
touched the heavy dishes served at the banquet.

After wandering aimlessly about, he walked toward the Madeleine
and turned off into the Rue Royale in the direction of the Faubourg
Saint-Honoré.

As he was passing a discreet looking restaurant with many thick
velvet curtains and an imposing array of private automobiles before
it, he heard his name called.

He stopped short and turned to see a vision of feminine
loveliness standing before him.

"Isabelle de Guerray!" he cried.

"And how are you, my dear boy? Come along in with me."

Fandor had known Isabelle de Guerray when she was a young school
teacher just graduated from Sévres. Her
career, beginning with a somewhat strange and unorthodox affair
with a young man of good family who had killed himself for her, had
progressed by rapid strides and her name was frequently cited in
the minor newspapers as giving elegant "society" suppers, the
guests being usually designated by their initials!

Fandor remarked that the fair Isabelle seemed to be putting on
weight, especially round the shoulders and hips, but she still
retained a great deal of dash and an ardent look in her eyes, very
valuable assets in her profession.

"I have my table here, at Raxim's, you must come and join us,"
and she added with a sly smile, "Oh—quite platonically—I know
you're unapproachable."

A deafening racket was going on in the narrow, oblong room. The
habitués of the place all knew each other and the conversation was
general. No restraint was observed, so that it was quite
permissible to wander about, hat on head and cigar between lips, or
take a lady upon one's knees.

Fandor followed Isabelle to a table overloaded with flowers and
bottles of champagne. Here and there he recognized old friends from
the Latin Quarter or Montmartre, among them Conchita Conchas, a
Spanish dancer in vogue the previous winter. A tiny woman, who might have been a girl of fifteen from her
figure, but whose face was marked with the lines of dissipation,
ran into him and Fandor promptly put his arm round her waist.

"Hello, if it isn't little Souppe!"

"Paws down or I'll scratch," was the sharp reply.

The next moment he was shaking hands with Daisy Kissmi, an
English girl who had become quite a feature of Raxim's.

Further on he noticed a pale, bald, and already pot-bellied
young man, who was staring with lack-lustre eyes at his whiskey and
soda. This premature ruin was listening distraitly to a waiter who
murmured mysteriously into his ear.

At the end of the room, surrounded by pretty women, sat the old
Duke de Pietra, descendant of a fine old Italian family, and near
him Arnold, an actor from the music halls.

The patrons had no choice in regard to the supper, which was
settled by the head waiter. Each received a bottle of champagne,
Ostend oysters, and, later, large slices of pâté de foie
gras, and as the bottles were emptied, intoxication became
general, while even the waiters seemed to catch the spirit of
abandon. When the Hungarian band had played their most seductive
waltzes, the leader came forward to the middle of the room and announced a new piece of his own
composition, called "The Singing Fountains." This met with instant
applause and laughter.

As the night wore on the noise became positively deafening. A
young Jew named Weil invented a new game. He seized two plates and
began scraping them together. Many of the diners followed his
example.

"Look here," exclaimed Conchita Conchas, leaning familiarly upon
Fandor's shoulder, "why don't you give us tickets for to-morrow to
hear these famous Fountains?"

Fandor started to explain that the young woman would be in bed
and sound asleep when that event took place, but the Spanish girl,
without waiting for the answer, had strolled away.

The journalist rose with the intention of making his escape,
when a voice directly behind him made him pause.

"Excuse me, but you seem to know all about these 'Singing
Fountains.' Will you kindly explain to me what they are? I am a
stranger in the city."

Fandor turned and saw a man of about thirty, fair-haired, with a
heavy moustache, seated alone at a small table. The stranger was
well built and of distinguished appearance. The journalist
suppressed a start of amazement.

"Why, it's not surprising that you have not heard of them, they
are quite unimportant. On the Place de la Concorde there are two
bronze monuments representing Naiads emerging from the fountains.
You probably have seen them yourself?"

The stranger nodded, and poured out another glass of
champagne.

"Well," continued Fandor, "recently passers-by have fancied they
heard sounds coming from these figures. In fact, they declare that
the Naiads have been singing. A delightfully poetic and thoroughly
Parisian idea, isn't it?"

"Very Parisian indeed."

"The papers have taken it up, and one you probably know by
name, La Capitale, has decided to investigate this
strange phenomenon."

"What was Conchita asking you just now?"

"Oh, nothing, merely to give her a card for the ceremony."

The conversation continued and turned to other subjects. The
stranger ordered more wine and insisted on Fandor joining him. He
seemed to be particularly interested in the subject of women and
the night life of Paris.

"If only I could persuade him to come with me," thought Fandor.
"I'd show him a stunt or two, and what a
scoop it would make … if it could be printed! He certainly is
drunk, very drunk, and that may help me."

On the Place de la Concorde, deserted at this late hour, two
men, arm in arm, were taking their devious way. They were Fandor
and the stranger he had met at Raxim's.

The journalist, with the aid of an extra bottle, had persuaded
his new friend to finish the night among the cafés of Montmartre.
The sudden change from the overheated restaurant to the cold
outside increased the effects of the alcohol and Fandor realized
that he himself was far from sober. As his companion seemed to be
obsessed with the idea of seeing the Fountains, the journalist
piloted him to the Place de la Concorde.

"There you are," he exclaimed, "but you see they're closed. No
more singing to-night. Now come and have a drink."

"Good idea, some more champagne."

Fandor hailed a taxi, and ordered the chauffeur to drive to the
Place Pigalle. As he was shutting the door, he observed an old
beggar, who evidently was afraid to ask for alms. Fandor threw him
a coin as the taxi started.

It was three in the morning, and the Place Pigalle was crowded with carriages, porters and a
constant ebb and flow of all sorts of people.

The journalist and his companion emerged some time later from
one of the best known restaurants, both drunk, especially the
stranger, who could scarcely keep his feet.

With some difficulty the stranger managed to give the address,
247 Rue de Monceau.

"All right," said Fandor to himself, "we'll have some fun; after
all, what do I risk?"

While the taxi shook them violently from side to side, Fandor
grew comparatively sober. He examined his companion more closely
and was surprised to see how well he carried himself in spite of
his condition.

"Well," he summed up, "he certainly has a jag, but it's a royal
jag!"

Chapter2
MOTHER CITRON'S TENANTS

"Now you've forgotten the fish knives and forks! Do you expect
my lover to eat with his fingers like that old Chinaman I had for
three months last year!"

Susy d'Orsel spoke with a distinct accent of the Faubourg, which
contrasted strangely with her delicate and distinguished
appearance.

Justine, her maid, stood staring in reply.

"But, Madame, we have lobsters… ."

"What's that got to do with it, they're fish, ain't they?"

The young woman left the table and went into the adjoining room,
a small drawing-room, elegantly furnished in Louis XV style.

"Justine," she called.

"Madame."

"Here's another mistake. You mustn't get red orchids. Throw
these out… . I want either mauve or yellow ones… . You know those
are the official colors of His Majesty."

"Queer taste his … His Majesty has for yellow."

"What's that to do with you. Get a move on, lay the table."

"I left the pâté de foie gras in the pantry
with ice round it."

"All right."

The young woman returned to the dining-room and gave a final
glance at the preparations.

"He's a pretty good sort, my august lover." Justine started in
surprise.

"August! Is that a new one?"

Susy d'Orsel could hardly repress a smile.

"Mind your own business. What time is it?"

"A quarter to twelve, Madame." And as the girl started to leave
the room she ventured:

"I hope M. August won't forget me, to-morrow morning."

"Why, you little idiot, his name isn't August, it's
Frederick-Christian! You have about as much sense as an
oyster!"

The maid looked so crestfallen at this that Susy added,
good-naturedly:

"That's all right, Justine, A Happy New Year anyway, and don't
worry. And now get out; His Majesty wants nobody about but me this
evening."

Susy d'Orsel, in spite of her physical charms, had found life
hard during the earlier years of her career. She had become a mediocre actress merely for
the sake of having some profession, and had frequented the night
restaurants in quest of a wealthy lover. It was only after a long
delay that fortune had smiled upon her, and she had arrived at the
enviable position of being the mistress of a King.

Frederick-Christian II, since the death of his father three
years previously, reigned over the destinies of the Kingdom of
Hesse-Weimar. Young and thoroughly Parisian in his tastes, he felt
terribly bored in his middle-class capital and sought every
opportunity of going, incognito, to have a little fun in Paris.
During each visit he never failed to call upon Susy d'Orsel, and by
degrees, coming under the sway of her charms, he made her a sort of
official mistress, an honor which greatly redounded to her glory
and popularity.

He had installed her in a dainty little apartment in the Rue de
Monceau. It was on the third floor and charmingly furnished. In
fact, he was in the habit of declaring that his Queen Hedwige,
despite all her wealth, was unable to make her apartment half so
gracious and comfortable.

Thus it was that Susy d'Orsel waited patiently for the arrival
of her royal lover, who had telephoned her he would be with her on
the night of December the thirty-first.

The official residence of the King while in Paris was the Royal
Palace Hotel, and although in strict incognito, he rarely spent the
whole night out. But he intended to make the last night of the year
an exception to this rule. As became a gallant gentleman, he had
himself seen to the ordering of the supper, and a procession of
waiters from the first restaurants of Paris had been busy all the
afternoon preparing for the feast.

Suddenly a discreet ring at the bell startled Susy d'Orsel.

"That's queer, I didn't expect the King until one o'clock!" she
exclaimed.

She opened the door and saw a young girl standing on the
landing.

"Oh, it's you, Mademoiselle Pascal! What are you coming at this
hour for?"

"Excuse me, Madame, for troubling you, but I've brought your
lace negligée. It took me quite a time to finish, and I thought
you'd probably like it as soon as possible."

"Oh, I thought it had already come. I'm very glad you brought
it. There would have been a fine row if it hadn't been ready for me
to wear this evening."

Susy d'Orsel took the dressmaker into her bedroom and turned on the electric lights. The gown was
then unwrapped and displayed. It was of mousseline de soie, trimmed
with English point.

Susy examined it with the eye of a connoisseur and then nodded
her head.

"It's fine, my girl, you have the fingers of a fairy, but it
must put your eyes out."

"It is very hard, Madame, especially working by artificial
light, and in winter the days are so short and the work very heavy.
That is why I came to you at this late hour."

Susy smiled.

"Late hour! Why the evening is just beginning for me."

"Our lives are very different, Madame."

"That's right, I begin when you stop, and if your work is hard,
mine isn't always agreeable."

The two women laughed and then Susy took off her wrapper and put
on the new negligée.

"My royal lover is coming this evening."

"Yes, I know," answered Marie Pascal. "Your table looks very
pretty."

"You might make me a lace table cloth. We'll talk about it some
other time, not this evening; besides, I can't be too
extravagant."

The dressmaker took her leave a few moments later and made her way with care in the
semi-obscurity down the three flights of stairs.

Marie Pascal was a young girl in the early twenties,
fair-haired, blue-eyed and with a graceful figure. Modishly but
neatly dressed, she had a reputation in the neighborhood as a model
of discretion and virtue.

She worked ceaselessly and being clever with her fingers, she
had succeeded in building up so good a trade in the rich and
elegant Monceau quarter, that in the busy season she was obliged to
hire one or two workwomen to help her.

As she was crossing the court to go to her own room, a voice
called her from the porter's lodge.

"Marie Pascal, look here a moment."

A fat woman dressed in her best opened the door of her room
which was lit by one flaring gas jet.

Marie Pascal, in spite of her natural kindliness, could scarcely
repress a smile.

She was large, shapeless, common, and good-natured. Behind her
glasses, her eyes snapped with perpetual sharp humor. She had a
mass of gray hair that curled round her wrinkled face, which, with
a last remnant of coquetry, she made up outrageously. Her hands and feet were enormous,
disproportionate to her figure, although she was well above middle
height. She invariably wore mittens while doing the housework.

Mother Citron, however, did very little work; she left that to a
subordinate who, for a modest wage, attended to her business and
left her free to go out morning, noon and night. She now questioned
Marie Pascal with considerable curiosity, and the young girl
explained her late errand to deliver the gown to Susy d'Orsel.

"Come in and have a cup of coffee, Mam'zelle Pascal," urged the
old woman, as she set out two cups and filled them from a coffee
pot on the stove.

Marie Pascal at first refused, but Mother Citron was so
insistent that she ended by accepting the invitation. Besides, she
felt very grateful to Madame Ceiron for having recommended her to
the proprietor of the house, the Marquis de Sérac, an old bachelor
who lived on the first floor.

The Marquis had used his good offices to obtain for her an order
for laces from the King of Hesse-Weimar. Mother Citron showed a
kindly interest in this enterprise.

"Well, did you see the King?"

"I saw him and I didn't see him."

"Tell me all about it, my dear. Is the lover of our lady
upstairs a good-looking man?"

"It's hard to say. So far as I could judge, he seemed to be very
handsome. You see, it was like this. After waiting in the lobby of
the Royal Palace Hotel for about an hour, I was shown into a large
drawing-room; a sort of footman in knee breeches took my laces into
the adjoining room where the King was walking up and down. I just
caught a glimpse of him from time to time."

"What did he do then?"

"I don't know. He must have liked my laces for he gave me a
large order. He didn't seem to pay much attention to them; he
picked out three of the samples I sent in and what seemed queer, he
also ordered some imitations of them."

The concierge smiled knowingly.

"I expect the imitations were for his lawful wife, and the real
ones for his little friend. Men are all alike. Another cup of
coffee?"

"Oh, no, thanks."

"Well, I won't insist; each one to his taste. The life Susy
d'Orsel leads wouldn't suit you. And the amount of champagne she
gets through!"

"All the same, there's something to be said for it. She has a
first-rate position since she got the King … and I get
first-rate tips! Take to-night, for instance; I'll bet they'll be
carrying on till pretty near dawn. It upsets my habits, but I can't
complain. I'll probably get a good New Year's present in the
morning."

"Well, as it's very late for me, I'll go up to bed."

"Go ahead, my dear, don't let me keep you."

Marie Pascal had reached the stairs when she turned back.

"Oh, Madame Ceiron, when can I thank the Marquis de Sérac for
his kindness in introducing me to Frederick-Christian?"

"No hurry, my child, the Marquis has gone to the country to
spend the New Year's day with his relations and he won't be back
before next week."

Marie Pascal climbed the stairs to her room on the sixth floor
and the concierge returned to her quarters and settled herself in
an armchair.